Great Expectations
by hellomaryland
Summary: "Is this", she throws her hands in the air, indicating her current state of emotional wreckage, "what you expected?" STYDIA ONESHOT.


**AN: This is just a smattering of Stydia emotions that occured after I spent a concerning amount of time searching the Stydia tag on tumblr. *REMEMBER I LOVE YOU SOBS***  
 **Disclaimer: Don't pretend like you don't know I own 0.0% of Teen Wolf.**

* * *

She's inconsolable. The sobs are pouring out of her like a waterfall while she tries to remain upright on the edge of his bed, her knuckles white as she grips his comforter for dear life. She's trying to make him understand what she's saying - repeatedly uttering the same unintelligible syllables between cries - but all he can do is rub his hand up and down her back like a complete buffoon, unable to speak for fear that it wouldn't be what she needed to hear, that it would just make things worse. She was here, in his room, on her own accord. Out of all the people in all the world, somehow he'd drawn the long straw and here she was.

Her breathing slows and his fears that she might hyperventilate right there in his room begin to subside. His hand comes to a halt at the small of her back and she closes her eyes - he watches her, taking in every detail of her for what seems like an eternity but he's sure is only about 8 seconds before the silence threatens to permanently put to rest any discussion that might come next so he has to speak while the window of opportunity is still open.

"Lydia?" He says her name tentatively and softly, as if his voice might accidentally shatter the proverbial glass bubble that had formed around them. He tries his damnedest to still his shaking hand as he pushes away the damp strands of strawberry blonde hair stuck to her cheeks.

For the first time since she arrived unannounced at his bedroom door, she makes eye contact. He is dumbstruck, his stomach doing somersaults at her beauty even when her green eyes are bloodshot & veiny and her porcelain skin is streaked with black and grey, remnants of eyeliner gathered under her eyes. He wills his face to form something like a smile but it's impossible, all he can do is hold her eyes and send her the most comforting telepathic messages he can muster. Suddenly her hand is on his face, he feels her thumb draw a small line on his cheek, and then back in her lap again at the same speed of light. He opens his mouth and racks his mind for something, anything, of significance to say but she laughs, looking away from him. For a moment he worries that she's laughing at him but it isn't a real one - he's got her real laugh memorized backward and forward - it's empty, hollow sounding and his rolling stomach is halted.

"Lydia." His voice is stronger but barely louder.

She laughs again, her eyes now studying her hands in her lap like they hold the answers to all of life's many mysteries. "I'm sorry." Her voice is even smaller than his had been. He can hear the emotion strangled in the back of her throat and his hand begins to move up and down her back again in the same slow steady rhythm as before, the only thing he can think of that might seem mildly comforting to her.

"For what?" he manages to squeak out.

They sit in total silence with each other, the only sound his hand against the fabric of her sweater, and it's a very long time before she answers him without answering him at all. "Is this what you pictured?"

"What do you mean?" he asks at a normal speaking volume, somehow reassured that their glass bubble of privacy would remain intact until she herself decided to break it.

"In the third grade," she says, wiping furiously at her cheeks now, using her sleeve to soak up any remaining moisture, seeming frantic yet composed all at once, "when you first saw me, when you first had your...crush...am I what you always thought I was?" She turns to face him, her face now bone dry but her eyes reflecting like glass again, threatening to open the skies back up. "Is _this_ ", she throws her hands in the air, indicating her current state of emotional wreckage, "what you expected?"

"No." The word comes out with a laugh that was probably poorly timed before he can even contemplate how he'd like to respond. She looks at him with a sort of shock in her eyes and he smiles at her, his face muscles seeming to be reactivated. The rest of his body seems to follow suit and his hand moves on it's own to grab hers. "No, Lydia, you are...nothing like I expected."

There's a slight hint of sadness in her face as he continues, the words he couldn't find moments ago now bubbling over like boiling water: "I thought you were...picture perfect, prom queen...princess of the universe, never made any kind of mistake, strawberry blonde genius -"

"I'm not," she cuts him off, breaking her eyes away from his and looking toward the window, "I'm not anything like that."

"No," he moves his hand from holding her fingers to turn her face back toward his own, "you're an actual person, Lydia. You're not a plastic Barbie doll with no emotions. You get mad, really mad, and you use swear words when you think nobody is listening, but I am. And you're a crier, like now...and when that sad commercial about the lost dog comes on...I know, I've seen you!"

She almost smiles so he goes on: "You've got no patience for anyone who doesn't understand the insane vocabulary you use, you have to be the boss in every situation, you own like 63 pairs of shoes and you continue to buy more, you love mushrooms which is _absolutely_ disgusting..." His heart tightens in his chest because she pushes her lips together, trying her best to conceal the smile tugging at her face. "You wont stop drinking copious amounts of diet soda, even when I repeatedly tell you that aspartame is gonna fuck that giant brain of yours up, you spent _three days_ pouting about your B+ on a chemistry test that I flunked by the way, you insist on playing music while we study because you can't focus when it's 'too quiet'" - he makes air quotes around the words and her smile almost breaks through - "you've made up a ridiculous imaginary rule that you can't wear the same outfit more than once a month, and Lydia..."

Her eyes are wide, like she's nervously anticipating what he's going to say next. But he doesn't really know what that's going to be because his heart is beating faster than it would be if this was just a normal conversation. He should say a million different things next - he should tell her that he can't breathe when he sees her upset, that he still gets third grade butterflies when she makes eye contact with him across a classroom, that he dreams about their locker room kiss every single night, even the nights that he shared his bed with Malia, and that he can't stand the idea that they might not walk through the rest of their entire lives together, every good time, bad time, and in-between time. But all that comes out is:

"...you've got _way_ too many clothes."

And finally she smiles. She rolls her eyes exaggeratedly and looks toward the ceiling, a real, true, honest laugh coming through.

"Stiles," her voice is solid and sure as she begins to wrap her fingers in his and he eagerly reciprocates the motion. Her eyes are clear, the bloodshot emotion fading, as she turns back to look at him, "sorry to disappoint you."

He smiles and she smiles. "Lydia. I spent an _embarrassingly_ large amount of time obsessed with a pretend person...and I'm far, far more impressed by the real one. Stunned, actually."

She changes when he says it; her eyes look funny to him, like they hold some secret formula that he's never seen before, which is completely impossible because he's been studying her for years. They dart around his face - from his own eyes, to his mouth, then back again - and he thinks she might say something poignant but she doesn't. She just purses her lips and studies him right back, both of them attempting to get answers from the other without actually having to verbalize anything. He can feel his heartbeat accelerating and he briefly fears for his health but her eyes don't waver from his so he refuses to break her gaze. But she breaks it. Their fingers remain intertwined and suddenly she looks down at them. She tightens her grip and he does the same. He can hear it now, what's coming next: she'll say she should go, that she's sorry to have bothered him with her problems, and she'll slip out the door before he can come up with an effective protest. He feels it coming like a train headed toward the two of them tied to a railroad track because it's happened before - they've had the perfect conditions, she's looked at him like he just rescued a basket full of kittens from a rushing river or something, and she's always run. So he knows his time is short.

He compiles it all - every ounce of courage he's ever held - and attempts to do his 8-year-old self proud. He grabs her face, forcing her to look at him. "Lydia..." it comes out open-ended like a question and she nods her head, prompting him to ask whatever it is that he was going to ask.

She tastes the same yet different, when he brings her mouth to his. It tastes similar to the locker room floor but not quite as innocent, not quite as unsure. There's intent behind it. There's...experience behind it, hurt, and heartbreak, and joy, and loss, and success. It's so similar yet so completely opposite. It does, however, feel just as stunning & magnificent when he feels her kiss him back, when he feels her wrap her fingers around his wrist, his hands still on either side of her face. And it is just as euphoric, just as absolutely insane, when he finally breaks away and looks at her still-closed eyes, her eyebrows furrowed with the same surprise she had worn when it had been her to kiss him. She swallows and opens her eyes slowly, her face branded with a look that seems shocked but also like she had seen it coming from a mile away...from ten years away.

There's a few moments of quiet, both of them looking at one another in sheer terror - he sees it on her face and feels it being displayed on his own - because everything has changed and there's no going back now. His body feels like every molecule that makes it up has shifted slightly. Her eyes look like they're a different color, somehow brighter green than before. The air in the room even smells different. She bites her bottom lip before she finally speaks. "Thanks."

He laughs far too nervously and gives the only appropriate response he can think of: "you're welcome."

And then in one fell swoop she pushes his hands away from her face so that she can grab his and smash their mouths back together. She wraps one arm around his neck to pull their bodies closer. His hand tangles in her hair and they move in perfect sync, like they were born to do it. The air smells different but it smells good. And he thinks he likes this new molecular arrangement much better than the old. He feels her smile against his mouth and he kisses her harder.

He's spent more nights...and days...and mornings...and afternoons than he would ever admit to anyone imagining what it would be like to make out with Lydia, about what it would be like if they ever finally got their shit together and admitted what they really wanted. And every single dimly lit daydream has paled in comparison to the sunlight that just burst through the clouds.


End file.
